


Interlude with a Vampire

by srsly_yes



Series: Blood Brothers 'Verse [6]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Slash, Vampire!House, Vampire!Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-31
Updated: 2009-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins over two hundred years in the future as House tells a tale about the first time he attended a vampire ball as Wilson's plus one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Rating: **PG-13 so far. Maybe R for language later?  
**Warning: **AU. Slash. A little dark. A scary moment or two. Fake angst.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine or ever will be. Just playing with my House and Wilson dolls.  
**A/N:** This is my contribution for Halloween, and as you can tell, pays a small homage to "Interview with a Vampire."    
**Beta:** Thanks to [](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/profile)[**bookfan85**](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/)  for her sharp eyes and support.

 

.

 

Ano Domini: 2225

He was in a good part of town in a city from hell.

The hospital made it so. Light streamed through the windows as homeless camped outside its walls. They did the best they could with scavenged bits of cloth and paper to protect their skin from the green rain slicked sidewalks.

The clinic was the only beacon in a world of twilight. Brimstone cinder clouds pressed gray fog against the cityscape, imprisoning the bloodless, bleeders, and bloodsuckers alike.

The bleeder was rushing to an appointment in the building across from the glowing edifice. He didn’t want to be late. It was important to make a good impression.

His death depended on it.

With his goal in sight, he stopped to gaze at the two-wheeled transport parked at the crumbling curb. It was a glorious machine. He never saw one before except in the bibliotechno centers.

All black titanium and carbon paper construction. He wanted to rub his hand over the imitation leather seat, but knew better by the dead vermin around its perimeter. A security net protected it.

As if to prove him right, a rat scurried to check on its fallen comrades only to be skewered by a jagged bolt of sizzling silver-blue light.

“Rest in hell. Don’t forget to write,” the old phrase slipped out of his lips without thinking. It must be because he was so close to his goal. He nervously massaged the base of his neck though there was no pain.

Checking the instructions again. Yes, this was the building. The only one with spires, arched doors and windows in the vicinity. There was no cross. Of course, there would be none. Not if lords lived here.

First sending a warning knock through the ancient cavern, he opened the heavy weather-beaten door. It groaned a welcome.

As he stepped inside, wings fluttered high above in the rafters wafting back whispered, winged applause.

His footsteps crunched against the sand and debris from the old stone walls as he trod down a slate aisle focusing his attention on the remains of a rose window. Not a trace of glass was left, and it would be a waste anyway. The sky was too dark to create a colored shadow. Now, the remaining lead tattooed its pattern onto the clouds beyond.

Below the window was the platform and the alter.

In front of the alter there was a chair.

In the chair was his lordship, a prince. A bloodsucker.

Striking and strong. Infused with health. Everything bleeders were not.

Cockroaches and vampires thrived in this world.

His lordship sat on his throne. Short cropped white hair framing a long face with fierce blue eyes, and a light beard softening the rugged lines of his cheeks and chin. The man struck a princely pose with his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head propped up by his fist. He was dressed all in black linen, denim and leather. Genuine by the old-fashioned cut and the wear-and-tear. A shirt peeked through a long leather duster and spotless motorcycle boots shod his feet.

No doubt about it. This was one of the Borgia family lieutenants.

The young man controlled his trembling and paid his respects, “My lord, I’m Franklin Jennings.”

The blue eyes rolled skyward, then the voice all sand and crushed glass spoke with annoyance, “Who else would you be, you idiot?! Do you see anyone else around?”

The bleeder began to stumble an apology, “b-but…”

The Prince straightened in his chair. “Don’t waste the oxygen supply. You submitted a candidacy application to become a Borgia vampire? Tell me why?”

Drawing a sheath of papers from under his coat, the dark haired man looked at the floor as he held them out, “My genealogy, my lord. My family directly descends from the bleeder side of the Borgia’s.”

The papers were snatched from his hand. He stumbled forward as the vampire pulled him close.

“Papers can lie, but you’re body can’t. I need to examine you.”

Cool sure hands ran the sleeves back up his arms as his mottled flesh was inspected. A fingernail scratched his wrist and a drop of blood was sniffed and tasted. The rest smeared onto a square of white cotton.

Next, his collar was pulled back and the same chilled flesh swiped his neck and shoulders. Finally, a flick of a fingertip, and his shirt was undone. His gaunt chest exposed to the same treatment.

The vampire nodded, releasing him. “Alright. I’ve seen enough unless you want to drop your pants. That’s your option.”

There was a wet smacking sound near Jennings’ foot. He looked, and right between his shoe and his lordship’s boot was a blob of black goo. His instinct to look up was prevented by a hand on the top of his head. “Better not. It seems my pet, Bela is having bowel problems again. You might get bat shit in your eye.

“So.” The prince sat further back in his seat and steepled his fingers, “You want to be embraced, and none too soon.” He snapped his fingers, and a small creature perched on his shoulder and emitted a high-pitched squeal.

Startled, Jennings stepped back, but the vampire stopped him with an upraised hand, “Don’t be afraid of Bela.” The bloodied cotton was waived in front of the diminutive wet nose, and small pointy teeth seized it and flew off with another scream. “He’s the smartest pet I ever owned. Of course, there was Steve, but what is a bat if not a rat with wings.”

Another wet plop landed on the top edge of the chair back close to the snowy head. The prince, never looked up, but yelled out into the empty vault, “Missed! Now get going! I don’t want to spend all evening entertaining this whelp.”

Leaning forward, the vampire’s sapphire eyes softened, “We have to wait for official results, but I can tell you the preliminary findings. Do you want the good news first, or the bad?”

Wetting his lips, Jennings opened his mouth…

“Stop!” The prince shook his head, “That’s a rhetorical question you, moron. Everybody wants the bad news first.

“The bad is…you’re in the late stages of EA, environmental autoimmune, and unless you are turned, you’re going to die a slow and painful death.”

Jennings had suspicions the disease finally caught up with him. He was 24 and considered old. It was about time he paid for the sins of his fathers, but his throat went dry anyway as he tried to digest the diagnosis.

"Now for the good. I sensed a scintilla of Borgia blood in the test sample. Which means, you may be lucky enough to die quickly at the hands of a vampire. Serve a short sentence agonizing in hell, and then rise again as one of the undead.”

The Prince’s eyes sparkled with silver as he flicked a tongue across his strong white teeth, and viper’s fangs sprang out. “Today may be your lucky day.”

The human squirmed, “Uh, that soon? I, uh, still have to make arrangements.”

“Arrangements? It’s not like you’re going anywhere. Unless you prefer dying permanently from EA, then you need arrangements.” There was an edge to his lordship’s voice. He was getting suspicious.

Wiping the sweat away from his forehead, Jennings begged, “This is moving much faster then I thought. Wha-what about the agonizing hell part? How long does that take?”

The white-haired man shrugged, “It’s all relative. Twenty-four hours human time, but a century to a rookie vamp. There is no free lunch, unless you have a friend named Wilson.”

“Wilson?”

A smile lit the grim lips, but the eyes became sad, “Ah Wilson. My sire. Unfortunately no longer with us.”

Jennings clutched at the news. Perhaps he could get his lordship to talk, and at the same time figure an excuse how to get away. “Wilson. You mean, the other Borgia lieutenant? He’s gone? Both of you are legend. There are tales about how the two of you guarded the ‘Family’ ring. It’s only you, now?”

Anger swept over the vampire’s visage as he spat, “Tell me! How do you know about the ring?!”

Arms held down by his side palms facing out, Jennings body language radiated innocence, “N-Nothing. Only stories passed down from my mother. That it’s ma-magical. It holds the key to ‘La Famiglia’s’ power.”

The vampire was in his face, “Hush! If you know that much then you should know as a bleeder you have no right to talk about such things. Only vampires have that right.”

Jennings knew he pushed the sound barrier to breaking, but did not think he had much to lose, “Since you’re a vampire, and we’re sort of kin, why don’t you fill me in?”

The lieutenant smiled cynically, “Oh sure, that’s gonna work.” He sighed, “But we do have time to kill, and you reminded me of Wilson. I could tell you one harmless tale while we wait. Would you like to hear about the first time Wilson and I saw the ring?"

The vampire's eyes glittered at the memory as he sat back into his chair to begin his yarn, "It was a dark and stormy night at ‘La Famiglia’s reunion ball. The theme was, 'Come as You Were,' and it took place over two hundred years ago. The masquerade was always held on the eve of Halloween….”

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/joomla/)


	2. Chapter 2

 

“What’s wrong with abracadabra?” Wilson said as he unlocked his office door. “Isn’t that what magicians say?”

“Yes. Lame-ass magicians,” House responded. He stopped and reconsidered. “You’re right. Abracadabra is perfect for your act.”

Wilson took off his top hat and checked his hair in a hand mirror and grumbled.

“It’s Halloween. I could hardly dress like a clown with the ball scheduled for tonight. The kids liked the performance. They applauded my disappearing bird trick—“

“—Because those pigeons found a way to miss the rest of your act,” House finished for him.

Stretching out on the couch, House impatiently checked the time.

“The invitation said 8 PM and no earlier. We still have ten minutes,” Wilson said as he carefully hung up his magician’s tails and put aside the black, scarlet-lined cape. He shrugged into a simple black tux jacket. “I can’t believe I didn’t have to argue with you to dress up for this occasion.”

House watched Wilson run his finger around his collar as if the shirt was choking him. He was enjoying Wilson’s discomfort. “An invitation to your family’s ball? I’m all over it. Can’t believe you thought you could hide it from me, your partner and minion.”

“Only for your own protection, House. God knows why I even tried.” His eyebrows crinkled in concern at what the night might hold in store for them. He was jumpy and could not shake the feeling that the evening was going to end in disaster.

The tasteful, black-trimmed, ivory envelope had arrived at work, and Wilson thought he had successfully hidden it from House’s prying eyes, burying it in a locked bottom drawer, jammed into a back folder in the middle of last year’s budget projections.

But when he returned from rounds, House was sitting on the corner of his desk, eyes shining with delight, as he read the announcement out loud:

_Principe Cesare Borgia  
requests the pleasure of   
Vassallo James E. Wilson’s  
presence  
for the “Come As You Were” Ball  
in celebration of your family heritage  
October 31st  
at eight o’clock in the evening  
Waldorf-Astoria_

 

Wilson quickly grabbed the heavy embossed paper and pocketed it. His arms folded in front of his chest. “Oh, no, House. The invitation was addressed to me.”

In his other hand, House waved a small card. “The RSVP says plus one.”

Wilson’s hand shot out at the speed of light. House felt a tug and the small rectangle vanished too.

“I’m required to go, but you’re not. It’s going to be boring.”

“No way in hell will I miss this event. How could mingling with a five-hundred-year-old Italian Renaissance prince and his vampire family be dull?

A strangled laugh escaped Wilson’s throat. “Mingling. Right. I can see you now, chitchatting with a roomful of vampires. I’ll be lucky if I can bring what’s left of you home in a doggy bag.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“You don’t have one.”

“Please?” House stuck out his bottom lip in mock pleading. “I’ll pay for your lunch.”

“You _are_ my lunch.”

Despite the asperity in his partner’s voice, House could tell the tension around the eyes was softening. “I’ll shave.”

“And wear a tux?”

House suppressed the glint of triumph from his eyes as he answered, “Yes, Master.”

And now they were waiting in Wilson’s darkened office to be transported.

Wilson showed him how they were to stand before they would be whisked away, then stepped aside and draped black fabric around his shoulders. Not meeting House’s amused gaze, he secured a dramatic high-collared cape around his neck.

Wilson looked damned sexy and dignified in the cloak, House thought. Not that he would ever utter the statement out loud.

Standing behind House, Wilson wrapped his arms tightly and enfolded him in the soft loose fabric as they watched the desk clock count down the seconds…_30, 29, 28,_ House reveled in every moment…_18,17,16_…Wilson nudging his earlobe…_10, 9, 8_… Wilson’ citrus aftershave was an aphrodisiac _3, 2, 1_…

“Wilson! What the fuck?”

House was left standing alone in the room.

* * *

 

Reality smacked House in the face.

Wilson had tricked him.

Had him jumping through hoops while never intending to take him along.

Forgotten like Cinderella on the eve of the ball.

House thumped his cane in anger, but instead of the sound of wood on carpet, a sharp rattle protested under the prodding tip. He gazed down at Wilson’s cell phone. Why did he leave it behind?

Just then a beacon of light shined up from the floor. The phone was set on mute, but a message proclaimed an incoming call from a blocked caller.

House wanted to know who was calling.

“Dr. Wilson,” House answered.

“Dr. House, a limousine is waiting for you downstairs.” The line immediately went dead.

Raising his eyebrows, House considered the danger or consequences of his actions no longer than a second before he left his prop cane behind and sped out the door.

This evening promised not to be in the least boring.

* * *

 

Cinderella’s pumpkin had nothing on the limousine that purred along highways and local streets. The driver sat stoically. Shaved head partially hidden under a cap. He never turned around or spoke.

The sleek vehicle never went over the speed limit, but never stopped for red lights—they all turned green within yards of the behemoth’s approach.

The interior smelled of rich fragrant leather, and gold-plated knobs invited him to see what treasures lurked within the hand-rubbed teak cabinets. He discovered newspapers, books, a television, DVD with movies, a computer and games, but he chose a glass of hand-cut crystal, and poured two fingers of 100-year-old scotch. A humidor was stocked with the best hand-rolled cigars. He sat back and puffed on a Havana and savored the smooth amber liquid running down the back of his throat.

He could get used to this kind of life.

Before nine o’clock his limo passed the awning of the grande dame hotel. He was about to inform the chauffeur of his mistake when the palace-on-wheels whisked him to a private entrance, where two refugees from a late-night creature feature stood at attention in front of a gleaming bronze door. Seven feet of solid muscle, bald headed and otherwise hairless, they had washed-out gray eyes and their long naked canines were exposed for everyone to see. They looked like clones from an experiment gone wrong.

He was at the right place all right.

One of the goons approached the limousine, opened the door, and bowed. “Dr. House.” The voice resonated from a register locked away in a cavern.

House climbed out of the car, rethinking his rash decision to come. He even turned longingly to the black cocoon that drove him here, but his ride had vanished. Probably turned back into a caterpillar.

The bass fiddle stood in front of him, inclined his head toward the opened door, and began walking. House followed, and the second hulk fell in behind. Inside, the two men flanked him as they steered through plush carpeted hallways and a labyrinth of period rooms, each looking older than the last. At one point, the hotel’s elegant public rooms appeared to be reflected in a series of mirrors, but were left far behind as they headed for a bank of gated elevators that looked unused since Teddy Roosevelt was President.

The gate rattled open and the sliding doors screeched a welcome. Inside, another solemn giant manned the equipment. His new pals indicated that House should get in by patting him on the back in what the Geneva Conventions described as a shove, and he was soon ensconced among the three guards.

The floor dropped from under him like an amusement ride. He expected a case of the bends as the elevator free fell to its destination.

They jolted to a halt. Out of habit, House grabbed at a wall for support to take the weight off his right leg, but Wilson had ensured his comfort earlier that morning by dosing him with a whirlwind round of sex.

Which was a good thing. Otherwise he never would have been able to tackle the obstacle course his jailers were taking him through.

He walked out onto a landing reminiscent of a 1920s gothic movie set. Something from _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ or _Phantom of the Opera_.

The windowless halls were high, with slender stone ribs arching upward, coming together at the peak of the ceiling like praying hands. A velvety red runner covered the stone floor, muffling the echo of his footsteps. His journey ended when one of the expressionless goons unlocked and opened a heavy iron door, revealing a simple square chamber resembling a bank vault. The walls and floor were made of black-and-white-flecked granite. Firelight from torches made the mica in the walls dance and sparkle. In the center was a backless bench from the same quarry, but the surface shined like a mirror.

The talkative one pointed to the bench.

House did as he was told and sat down. The two men took up sentry duty on either side.

There was little to claim his attention. The wall before him had a brushed steel door with no hinges or knobs. There were no windows, pictures, or warming carpet.

The impersonal stone chilled the room and darkened his soul.

He thought, _Wilson has abandoned and sacrificed me to his family of demons._

House lay down with his back against the slab, hands clasped on his stomach, legs dangling and swinging over the edge, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

It was not the first time someone close threw him out in the cold to suffer and fend for himself.

He would manage.

He always did.

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/joomla/)


	3. Chapter 3

  
Gloom settled upon the rock cell.

Time passed without witness from any watch or clock, and House lost track of time. He scratched at his shaved cheek, surprised that there was no new stubble.

He checked his pocket and discovered his phone was missing. Either left behind in the limousine, or more likely keeping Wilson’s company.

He was completely cut off from the outside world.

His jailers stood at attention on either side of him, hands clasped in front, legs slightly splayed, motionless. The flickering flames from the torches hanging on the walls gave the illusion that the guards were breathing, but they were not.

House’s head snapped up when rumbling filled the room. The door was opening. Sliding on a metal track and disappearing into a panel, revealing a granite hall that went on for miles before vanishing into the Adirondacks.

Just as he began to lose interest in this latest floorshow, House heard distant footsteps coming down the corridor, striking the hard surface with the regularity of a timepiece.

Peering into the dark, he watched and waited. He could make out a black pinprick in the dark, and it was growing larger.

The speck grew legs, a head, and wings, metamorphosing into a thing. The wings proved to be a cape, and the thing emerged into a man. Eventually the man was close enough to sprout features. The face was young, with black eyes dominating white skin, sculpted and shadowed by high check bones and a thin determined mouth. The visage brooded under heavy brows.

“Wilson?”

House barely recognized his partner. He looked so young.

The golden flames from the torches warmed the black eyes to brown. The lanky vampire’s feet hardly touched the floor in his haste to sit next to House.

“House, I’m sorry. I didn’t know the review committee changed plans at the last minute. Have you been waiting long?”

“For a while, but Kutner and Taub here have been entertaining me with an underground tour of Manhattan.” House should have known Wilson was loyal. He ran his fingertips down the sharp planes of the waxen face. The man before him looked even younger than twenty-three. “So this is exactly the way you looked the day you were turned?”

“Um, if I lose the cape and drink ten pints of blood.”

The lazy eye migrated toward his nose as Wilson paused, and made a decision. He dug into a pocket and brought out a couple of Vicodin. “Here. Swallow.”

“But my leg is fine.”

“Do what I say,” Wilson hissed under his breath as he quickly looked around him. The guards hadn’t moved. He lowered his voice. “The pills are a precaution. The medication will taint your blood, making it…less palatable. Take it and don’t argue.”

“Oh, hello, little guys. Missed me?” House ingested them whole.

Wilson looked anxious. “We’d best be going.”

House tilted his head toward the muscle. “Are the Olsen twins coming with us?”

“No, and stop with the names. They’re members of the Borgia’s elite Nosferatu Guard. You do _not_ want to piss them off."

Wilson stood up and gestured for House to do the same. Spinning him around, Wilson was once again behind House's back, grasping him by the the waist.

A cool breeze raced under House’s skin and the next thing he knew, he and Wilson were standing in front of majestic double doors guarded by two more thugs. Music and voices could be heard coming from the other side.

The guard glanced at Wilson’s invitation, passed it to his colleague, nodded, and opened the door.

Sensory overload smashed House in the face. He was on a landing with a balustrade overlooking a ballroom half the size of a football stadium. The towering walls and ceiling were covered with Renaissance murals. The floor inlaid with multicolored marble created a parquetry pattern.

People dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors and fantastic costumes that spanned centuries of fashion strolled by, chatting and laughing. Most were sipping from gem-encrusted golden goblets. Some looked tipsy as their eyes flashed red and silver.

Wilson’s eyes nervously strayed toward the end of the cavernous room where the Nosferatu performed bouncer duties, escorting a protesting vampire struggling toward another door directly to the right of the gated one he just came through.

Stiffening, Wilson bit his lip and said nothing.

A beautiful woman dressed in a tall powdered wig and an extravagantly embroidered gown stopped in her tracks before House, her eyes shooting appraising silver sparks as she winked and bared her fangs. Wilson immediately placed a hand on House’s shoulder and rolled his upper lip, allowing his own sharp ivories to show.

They stared each other down until House heard a deep bassoon voice announce, ”Vassallo James Wilson and his minion, Gregory House."

The woman skulked away.

Wilson relaxed and let his fangs retract, steering House to the stairs without a word, but House was annoyed to be outed in public as a minion.

“What was that about?” House demanded.

“Until you are announced as under my protection—“

“You mean singled out as your _minion_.”

House spat “minion” as if it was a dirty word. A joke between them was one thing, but he was no man’s property.

“I repeat, until you are announced as…my, er…plus one, you are free-range meat-on-the-hoof to any vampire at this ball."

"Then what was the Vicodin for? This shindig's already giving me a buzz."

Wilson was upset. “As, an added precaution. In case I’m n-not around to protect you.”

But he quickly regained his composure. “That’s the Borgia’s rules, House, and when we’re his guests we play by them.”

House accepted the explanation. He had no interest in being anyone’s happy meal this evening—except Wilson’s.

Having no idea where they were going, he followed Wilson weaving through the crowds. “And what’s all this about Vassallo? Vassel? What happened to doctor? I prefer Dr. Minion.”

Wilson stopped and revved up into lecture mode. “House, can’t you be serious for one minute? There’s protocol.” He lowered his voice and barely moved his lips. “Why the hell do you think these people care about medicine and doctors? They’re not going to die. They're undead. And as far as Vassallo is concerned, that’s my title and rank in La Fam—“

“Doctor Wilson, Bubbee!” A loud sing-song voice broke into Wilson’s diatribe. A short, balding, chubby man with a glowing red nose beamed at the two of them. He was swaying, and the contents of his chalice threatened to spill all over his immaculate white shirt and tails.

“My lord Irving.” Wilson bowed from the waist.

“My God! Irving!? From Irving’s House of Magic?” House was incredulous. The worst magician on the Eastern seaboard was a vampire, and Wilson was bowing down to him as if he were David Copperfield and Criss Angel rolled into one.

“House, shut up and bow.” Wilson gritted through his teeth.

House did a double take. Wilson was a stretched guitar string tonight.

Irving waved away the tribute. “Now, now, Bubbeleh, for five hundred years I got respect. More I don’t need. So are you enjoying yourselves? Did you get yourself a drink?”

“No, my lord. We were heading over there now.”

House noted Wilson’s mouth said one thing, but his eyes concentrated on something else. They kept flickering over to the gated door, a light-year away from where they were standing, but his attention returned to the old vamp as Irving began to speak.

“Good. The Godfather’s staff presented particularly sweet vintages this year.” The short speech reminded the prestidigitator that his goblet was still full, and he swallowed deeply, allowing a contented burp to escape his lips.

“So, I hear you’re scheduled for an audience with the Borgia tonight. That’s quite an honor, unless, of course, you’ve fallen into bad habits and he’s planning to throw you into the Hell Pit. Which is it?”

Irving was laughing at his own joke, but the oncologist turned whiter than white.

“I-I don’t know, Prince. I just found out when I arrived. You wouldn’t happen to know why?”

“Me?! A small-time putz like me know what the Borgia has in mind? Just because we grew up in the same town together, albeit I lived on the wrong side of the tracks, or umm, I mean, cartwheels…in the ghetto….

“Sorry, Bubbee. I’m not privy to that information.” Irving looked like he was making a condolence call, then brightened. “Say, are you enjoying yourselves? Did you get yourself a drink?”

“No. We’re heading there now, my lord.” Wilson shot House a sharp glance to keep quiet. This time they both bowed as they made their getaway.

House grabbed Wilson’s arm and stopped him in the middle of the teeming throng. ““Clue me in. Is this a vampire ball, or a mad hatter’s tea party? What’s going on between you and His Royal Highness Irving?”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s getting old. It’s complicated, House.”

“Try me.”

“You heard him. He’s known the Borgia Prince since they were kids—“

“Bambini,” House supplied.

“Fine. Since they were bambini together. He’s a loyal subject and has risen up the ranks to the title of ‘Prince.’ One rung below the Godfather.”

“Not that Irving would remember,” House said.

Wilson looked around before he answered. “Some vamps begin to lose their faculties after five hundred years. All the more reason to be on your best behavior.  If it gets back to the Godfather that we showed disrespect to a fading lieutenant, he’ll take it as a personal affront. You can get your head chopped off at these events if you don’t show proper regard.”

“What about all these thugs? What are they here for? Chopping off heads if anyone goes Don Rickles? They can’t be for decoration.” House began to raise his arm and point them out, but Wilson quickly wrapped his own hand around House’s fingers and gently moved the arm down.

“Seriously, can we discuss this later? We’d better go to the fountain room and get our drinks. The Godfather will be disappointed if we don’t.”

House did not move, but stared intently at Wilson.

“Please House, this is important. Let’s just get this next part over with, then we can talk.”

With a curt nod from his minion, Wilson opened a path through the undead so they could make their way to an adjoining room.

The fountain deserved an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most grand and grotesque bar on the planet.

An ornate structure of gilded bronze constructed by some demented Michelangelo filled the back wall. Liquid cascaded from slits near the ceiling twenty feet above, filling and overflowing basins decorated with horned and split-tongued cherubs, mixing and recombining until all of it collected into a pond below.

The liquid was fresh, bright, and red.

Nosferatu guardsmen manned stations every few feet, filling the endless supply of golden goblets, sometimes from the bottom pool, sometimes from one of the basins above.

House tried to decipher who received what.

“It’s by status and rank,” Wilson explained, picking up on the silent question. “See the insignia pins most of the vampires are wearing?”

Blue eyes scanned the crowd. House saw circles, bars, and exes. Some, like Wilson wore none.

House said, “You’re a vassel.”

“Right, I’m on the bottom rung,” was Wilson’s stolid reply. “The purer and rarer blood types are reserved for the upper echelon.” He pointed to the slots near the ceiling. “All the different blood types, with or without antigens, and a few favored non-human types as well.”

Wilson’s skin was turning from white to green.

Before House could ask what minions were given to drink, Wilson whisked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to him.

“Expressly stocked for…bleeders.”

Straightening his shoulders as if about to face a firing squad, Wilson stepped forward and received a brimming cup of warm blood from which a wisp of steam rose. A small thread of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth, but his tongue snatched it back. He grimaced and wrinkled his nose as he took a small sip.

This behavior was fascinating to House.

“You don’t like it? It’s blood.” House narrowed his eyes in skepticism. “What do you think you’ve been drinking at home? You know I’m not a juice box?”

Wilson nibbled at the rim of the cup, siphoning another taste while trying not to gag.

When he regained control of his autonomic reflexes he shrugged. “You’re different. Drinking yours is like swallowing the…essence of you.”

“That’s one word for it,” House said dryly.

Wilson forced a third of the scarlet liquid down his throat as House surveyed the other vampires. While trying their best to look nonchalant they could barely control themselves from licking their bowls as they quaffed serving after serving. Several looked glassy eyed and glutted, while newcomers swarmed in with red, glowing, hungry eyes, but not House’s vamp. House seemed doomed to spend the night watching Wilson force down the contents of one miserable goblet.

Getting impatient, House saw Irving returning for seconds or twelfths. He was sure the magician couldn’t remember. At the right moment, House jostled Wilson’s elbow and the chalice tilted, slopping the remains into Irving’s cup as he walked passed.

In blissful ignorance, Irving continued on his way.

“Wha—what do you think are doing? I’m supposed to drink all of it.”

“Yeah, well life's too short, even for undead you. Show me around this joint,” ordered House.

Wilson placed his empty beaker on a tray. The men returned to the main room and walked around the perimeter.

Wilson was a little calmer as he pointed out celebrities from the vampire world. “He’s the prototype for Blade.”

He went on to explain the pins and ranks, and about the state rooms.  
   
“We’re not in Kansas anymore. This certainly isn’t the Waldorf-Astoria,” House stated.

“Yes, it is. Well, virtually.”

The crowd thinned as they neared the two doors at the end of the ballroom. Wilson’s attention began drifting again and his fingers began to twitch. He was watching the gated door as another vampire left, this time unescorted and under his own power.

“Wilson, snap out of it. Give me a yes or no.” House demanded.

“Virtual like virtual sex. Can’t tell you much. Only what I heard.

“The Godfather purchased the old Waldorf-Astoria before it was demolished and cast a spell on the rooms, preserving them outside reality and redesigning them according to his taste. He invested in the new hotel as a silent partner, giving him rights to use the current one as a portal into the old. You might say the current Waldorf-Astoria is a beard for La Famiglia Della Rosa’s main headquarters.”

Wilson raised his hands in the air as House threw him a dubious look. “Hey, don’t look at me. You saw for yourself how crazy the rooms are. After accepting the fact that I’m a vampire, I shouldn’t think a virtual building would be that difficult for you to understand.”

Wilson flashed another skittish glance at the two doors.

“You’re behaving like there’s something worrying you behind those make-believe doors,” House voiced his observation.  
   
“Virtual, not make-believe. You should certainly know the difference. Our sex isn’t make-believe.” Wilson’s planted his hands on his hips.

House shook his head. “You’re right, it may be out of this world, but it’s real. So what’s behind doors one and two?”

Wilson hunched his shoulders and slipped his hands into his pockets, not making eye contact. “The gated bronze door leads directly into the Godfather’s study. The second goes to the Hell Pit.

“You might have noticed, most of the vampires have been escorted to the iron door and not allowed to rejoin the members in the ballroom. Rumors are rampant that the Borgia Prince reviewed the membership and is cleaning house.

“My audience is scheduled in a few minutes. When it’s over, I’m expecting to be chaperoned to the other door,” Wilson said with a quiet and resigned voice.

“As soon as they come for me, find Irving and ask him to help you get out of here.”

House reasoned, “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

A choked breath escaped from pursed lips. “But I haven’t done anything right. Like you always say, ‘can’t fly, can’t turn into a bat.’ Can’t do anything. Can’t choke down one glass of the Godfather’s vintage blood, for God’s sake.

“I’ve only been invited one time before this, as my sire’s novice, but never had an audience with the Borgia Prince.” Wilson’s voice became soft. “This can’t be good, House.

“That’s why I didn’t want you to come, and gave you the Vicodin to safeguard you if I'm not around. House, promise me you’ll leave as soon as….”

Wilson stopped talking.

House looked to see what caught Wilson’s attention.

Two burly sentries were bearing down on them.

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/blogger/)


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson stepped forward, blocking most of House from the guards’ view. “I’m ready,” he said.

House automatically joined Wilson’s side, but the gesture was unnecessary. Each hulk latched onto a doctor’s arm and escorted both through the gates into the Godfather’s study.

It was empty, but neither man made a move to sit down when the Nosferatu took up positions in front at the entrance.

After the lavish and gaudy ballroom, this room was an oasis of calm. Dark walnut paneling and furniture floated over an ancient silk Persian carpet, its colors softened from use and age. Tufted leather chairs and sofas dotted the room in shades blending from caramel to fawn.

“Welcome, gentlemen, and happy All Hallow’s Eve,” said a charming voice with a trace of an Italian accent behind them.

The men whirled on their heels. Wilson immediately fell to one knee….

“Come, come, Doctor Wilson, there is no need for that, or to kiss my ring. We shake hands in the 21st century.”

Wilson was surprised at how warm and firm the Borgia’s handshake felt.

The old man shifted his gaze. “Dr. House. We haven’t been formally introduced. I am the head of La Famiglia Della Rosa. I’m called by a variety of names and titles, Borgia, Borgia Prince, Godfather, Lord, and others less seemly, but I’d be delighted if you would call me by my given name, Cesare. Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some refreshment?”

A discordant chorus spoke up.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, no.”

“But I insist.”

The head of the family was surprisingly diminutive in stature, but charisma and power rolled off him like a nuclear power plant. He gestured toward the couch, and Wilson jumped in his haste to immediately do as he was bid. House lingered, but Wilson tugged hard on his sleeve, signaling  him to sit down.

The Borgia Prince sat across from them. His eyes were a brilliant blue, rivaling House’s; his demeanor easy-going and gentle enough to give Wilson lessons. Silver-white hair no longer bordered the forehead in a striking widow’s peak, but receded, spilling the wisdom of centuries onto the long, unlined face.

A servant appeared with a golden tray, first offering his master a crystal goblet of frothy crimson. Two crystal glasses were directed toward House and Wilson, a low tumbler of amber liquid that looked and smelled suspiciously like bourbon, and a twin to the Godfather’s.

A low chuckle escaped from the Prince, who easily read Wilson’s thoughts. “No, Doctor Wilson, don't fret. I assure you, this blood is preferable to the bourbon.

“Let’s raise our glasses in a toast,” he announced. The crystal sparkled, as did the only jewelry that the elder wore. A heavy gold ring set with a ruby star sapphire.  
   
“May you exist in peace.”

The glasses were held aloft, and the doctors took refuge in their respective potions. Wilson took a tentative sip, looked surprised, and relaxed.

“Delicious, my lord,” Wilson said, swirling the remaining liquid in the bottom of his glass.

“I thought the concoction would be to your taste. Over half of it comes from the sample you sent us of Dr. House’s blood.”

The Borgia could not have looked more pleased than when both men began coughing and choking.

Recovering first, House sputtered, “Wilson, you sneaky bastard.”

“House, my hands were tied. You insisted on coming to the ball, so I had to register you as my minion,” responded Wilson while barely keeping his indignation under control.

“Boys, please,” said the head of the clan. “Save the foreplay for later.”

_Later_. Both men clued onto that word and let down their guard a hairsbreadth. Perhaps Wilson had a future after all.

Another chuckle escaped the Godfather. “The two of you are quite amusing, though you make an unlikely pair.” Cesare became serious. “An unholy alliance.”

Both men felt chills run up their spines. Neither one looked at the other, but their legs moved and touched.

“You two don’t know, do you? Dr House comes from a family of vampire hunters and slayers.” The patriarch’s eyes glittered as he sat forward. “A vampire and vampire hunter in a relationship. That only happens once every hundred years.”

The dazzling eyes hypnotized House as the Prince addressed him. “The strong upbringing you received tempered the metal within you while twisting your soul to accommodate a vampire in your life.”

“You must be mistaken, Big Daddy—“

“—‘Godfather,’ you idiot,” Wilson hissed under his breath.

“Godfather. My father was not my biological dad.”

“Who said anything about your father?” The Borgia mouth drew into a thin line. “I’m speaking about your mother. You inherited your hunter genes from the slayer side of your family. The man who raised you contributed strength of character to help you wield your power.”

The room was as quiet as a morgue as the information sank in.

Wilson spoke first. “Is that why House wasn’t transported with me? Because he’s a vampire hunter?”

“Yes. My techs were overloaded with blood tests for the ball, and the report did not reach my desk until this afternoon. Unfortunately, even the vampire world runs on committee and consensus, and it took a little coaxing on my part to get your paperwork approved."

House was startled when the lights dimmed, and the elegant gentleman morphed into a dry husk with flaming eyes and blackened spikes for teeth. He blinked and the light and the figure in front of him returned to normal. He looked at Wilson, who was drinking as if nothing had happened. House regarded his glass and wondered if he had swallowed the liquor too quickly.

“My apologies for the inconvenience and delay.” said the Godfather.

“However, I didn’t bring you here to discuss your family tree, but mine, and to recognize Doctor Wilson for services rendered.”

“Godfather, you must be mistak—“

“—Utshay upway, you oronmay.” House spoke from the side of his mouth.

“Your partner is right. It is not in your best interests to prove me wrong…but I’m not mistaken.

"You may have noticed that I have been addressing you, Doctor Wilson, by your professional title rather than by your grade level within La Famiglia. It is because of this.” A folder appeared on the couch next to the Borgia, who handed it to Wilson. “Here. Read.”

House scanned the information over Wilson’s shoulder. “They’re Wilson’s patients.”

The silver-haired vampire nodded in agreement. “A good three dozen. Mortal descendents of my offspring who developed cancer. I ran the numbers past my bean counters. They told me you have had an inordinate amount of my progeny under your care, and you lengthened their survival. Our diviners believe family members unconsciously sought you out due to our vampiric connection. Call me a foolish old man, but I care for my living heirs as much as my undead.

“Stand up, Doctor Wilson.”

Wilson towered over the legend. The Prince flicked imaginary dust off the oncologist’s black lapel on his tux, and there appeared a small gold insignia of a knight’s helmet. House expected Wilson to be the recipient of a peck on each cheek, but instead the men shook hands as the Godfather intoned, “Congratulazioni, Cavaliere Doctor Wilson.”

Wilson beamed a smile of relief as he sat back down on the sofa, and winked at House.

“I have also reviewed your personnel file, Doctor, and find your paranormal skills below normal for someone who has been in La Famiglia for this amount of time.”

The smile froze on Wilson’s face.

“I want to remedy that right away.” He snapped his slender fingers, and a package suddenly appeared in Wilson’s hands.

“This is a spell book. Do you know Latin?”

The dark-eyed vampire nodded.

“Good. This is written in a combination of Latin and Romanian with a touch of Sanskrit, but my family tells me it is translatable to someone with an education in Latin. The book is a rare treasure, my boy. Take care of it well.”

The Borgia snapped his fingers again, and the book disappeared. “It will be waiting in your limousine when you leave.”

Tapping his index finger to his lips, the Prince became solemn. “There is one last gift. To speak frankly, I’ve given a lot of thought to whether you are ready. Very few have been granted such largesse because the potential for abuse is great, but a hunter joining with a slayer is a significant event.

“We are moving toward apocalyptic times.”

House and Wilson looked at each other.

“I count on your humanity and your adherence to the Hippocratic oath to guide you toward the right decisions.”  
   
The Borgia never looked so princely until that moment. He took off his ring and handed it to a small stooped man who stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a leather apron and magnifiers. “Here, Niccolo, two strokes shall do.”

Without a word, the craftsman bowed his way to a small workbench. The purr of a file stroked gently at the shank of the ring.

On the second downstroke, the Godfather raised his hand and the room fell quiet. The fingertips steepled in front of his mouth and he closed his eyes.  
   
“Make that three.”

The sound of metal against metal zippered through the air and stopped.

“Which vial, my lord?

“The da Vinci.”

The craftsman returned and bowed as he presented a petite gilded flask to the Godfather and vanished back into a dark corner.

The haloed head nodded, and Wilson leaned over and accepted the tiny bottle. Blue and brown eyes squinted into the light to see what it held. There was a sprinkling of yellow flecks at the bottom.

Wilson spoke, “Does this come with instructions?”

“If you are who I think you are, you will know when the time is right, my son.”

The Godfather stood up and signaled the end of the audience, and the guards stepped forward. “I have kept you too long. Please go and enjoy yourselves.”

House and Wilson bowed and followed the Nosferatu out of the study. The spell did not break until the sound of the crowd and music washed over them.

House was the first to return to reality. “Holy crap. We’re superheroes.”

“Didn’t you catch the part about caution and the apocalypse?” Wilson asked with a touch of asperity as he slipped the vial inside the breast pocket of his jacket.

“That’s what you heard. Did you fall asleep when Pops announced that I’m a vampire hunter?”

“No, but don’t expect me to be surprised. You were stalking me long before we became a couple.”

“Admit it, Wilson. We go together like the rhinovirus and nose snot.”

Wilson hesitated. “I know I’m going to regret asking….”

“I’m annoying and you’re always running away.”

As Wilson tried to untangle the logic of House’s observation, the vampire hunter sprinted over to the iron door.

“House, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wilson was breathing down his partner’s neck.

With hand upon the handle, House said, “Now that I’ve seen what’s behind door number one, I want to—“

“No! I won’t let you!”

Wilson wrestled away the hand.

“Won’t?” House pointed to the gold lapel pin. “Where are your courtly manners, Sir Jimmy?”

“I don’t have the time to practice chivalry when you’re determined to get yourself killed!”

House had rarely seen Wilson so furious. “We survived the Godfather, now I want to see the Hell Pit you talk so much about.”

“Yes, it’s all my fault for bringing it up. I suppose if I talked about cars you would want to stand in the middle of the highway.

“Can you possibly understand how close we came to getting an engraved one-way ticket to that room?” Wilson involuntarily shuddered, drawing a hand across his eyes as he tried to calm down.

“Let’s leave, OK? Would you settle for a detailed description of the Pit on our drive home?”

Nodding, House gave in. Wilson looked frazzled.

They both had quite enough surprises for one night.

Just as the men were about to climb the stairway, a voice shrieked from the crowd. “Where have you been all evening. Have you no respect?!”

House saw Wilson freeze on the first step, softly muttering, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

By the time Wilson turned around he was wearing a pleasant expression on his face as he walked over to an incredibly stunning and statuesque blonde.

“Sire,” he bowed.

Leaning against the banister, House couldn’t wait to see the little drama that was sure to unfold. So this was Zehava, the human Uzi. And so named because the inventor said he once dated her, claiming she was his inspiration.  
   
The tall, leggy blonde had a figure to make beauty contestants hide away in shame. House’s hands itched to touch her tempting curves.

Her soft blonde hair was piled high upon her head with tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Her exotic doe-shaped eyes sparkled like big country sky. Judging by her creamy complexion and youthful appearance, she could be no older than twenty when she was embraced, but by the length and cut of her scarlet gown, she was more than one hundred. She could have been a model for Charles Dana Gibson.

“You were sneaking out without seeing me!”

The voice could combust a fireproof building.

Wilson’s slaked the flames with his lie. “Of course not, Sire. I’ve been looking for you since I arrived. I expressly wanted you to meet my minion.”

House felt fingers digging into his upper arm as he was yanked away from the safety of the railing.

“Zehava, this is Dr. Gregory House. Greg, I _know_ how _pleased_ you are to finally meet my sire, Dr. Zehava Peterson, whom I told you so much about.”  
_  
As in_…_run in the other direction as if your life depended on it,_ House thought, but Wilson’s fingers were reminding him to keep his tongue under wraps. “Can’t tell you all the kind words Wilson’s said about you.”

That little remark earned him a quick pinch before Wilson let go of his arm, but it was worth it, and Zehava seemed not to notice. She was intent on neutering her childe and his minion with the shrillness of her voice, but her eyes and words were weapons too.

Twin sapphires lasered up and down House’s body as her mouth turned down at the corners. “It took you over fifteen years to choose a minion, and this is what you picked?! A string bean with thinning hair?”

Wilson lost his composure and waved a finger. “No, he’s not what I chose, but lucky for me, _he_ picked_ me_ and saved my life. I didn’t think he would want anything to do with a vampire, thanks to you, _Mom_.”

_Okaaay._ House could recognize a dysfunctional family argument when he heard one, even if the family were vampires. If no one put a stop to it, he was never going to get out of there.

Besides, Wilson’s loyal words created a rising need in him, and he wanted to get back to the apartment as soon as possible.

Taking a stab at peace negotiations, he said, “Did you hear about Wilson’s promotion? The Godfather made him a cavaliere.”

The announcement did not have the expected effect.

Hands on her hips. “Finally! I’ve never had a childe move so slowly through the ranks. I thought for sure you were going to bring dishonor to me and end up in the Hell Pit tonight.”

_The Hell Pit!_ House checked Wilson and Zehava. Looked like neither was going to give in anytime soon.

Zehava was drawing more blood than Wilson. He was beginning to whine like a hormonal teenager.

“You haven’t exactly been around to mentor me….”

House decided it was the perfect time to go exploring.

Working his way back through the crowd, House was again in front of the iron door. The metal exterior felt cool. How bad could it be?

He pulled on the handle and was surprised at how heavy it felt. The door resembled the thickness and mechanism on a bank vault, opening slowly on its own terms.

He stepped forward…

…and perdition hit him full in the face.

House expected a narrow well with fire at the bottom, but this landscape exceeded Hieronymus Bosch’s vision. A holocaust stretched out before him. It was so vast he could make out the curvature of the earth. The heat was repulsive, but the stench made him gag. This universe was a garbage dump for hatred, anger, and war, and an incinerator to burn flesh from anything that walked, flew, or swam. Every bad thought or deed became a citizen in this Netherworld.  
   
House filled his lungs with ballroom air before returning to the roiling panorama. Geysers shot flames into the air. What was this? Hell?

He could make out unhuman stick figures moving to and fro like industrious ants, fueling millions of small fires, some on their own skinless and boneless bodies as if the blazes were a rash. Everything was being consumed. He watched one figure burn up and disappear in an echoing howl, only to spring up again and go about parceling out refuse into stacks as if nothing happened, while others carted it away.

Wilson was right. No one should ever have to see this. Certainly not experience it.

House found the vault handle. He needed to get away, but his sweat-soaked hands could not gain purchase on the heavy door.  
   
As the door began to swing closed, he felt a forceful shove. His fingers and feet scrabbled at the portal. A smash to his head and he was falling….

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/friendster/)


	5. Chapter 5

  
Arms and legs flailing into empty space, House tried grabbing onto thick air. He saw his clothes burning away and felt his skin blistering and dropping off. “Wilson!” he yelled, but immediately regretted it. He didn’t want his lover anywhere near this.

He felt ironic relief. Such an impulse would never happen again. He no longer had a mouth to speak, or flesh for that matter.

He was in agony. Slag heaps of it. His thigh had taught him that pain came in different languages, but now he understood that disintegrating nerves could sing and dance, and come in more colors than in a Crayola box.

The pain kicked and screamed like a cowboy tied to a bucking bronco and was endless, like the fall. House made one last effort to claw the air, but scarcely had the strength or muscle to fight.

That’s when he noticed the updraft.

The heat created a current that was suspending him in mid-air. He was descending, but slowly.

_“House! Oh my God, Hooouuse!!! Help! We need help here!”_

Wilson. How in hell could he hear Wilson through the din and clamor of this unearthly firestorm?

Feathered flares stroked him.

The connection….

_“Hold on, House!”_

_“Hold on to what? Wilson. You. Idiot.”_

But House’s freefall slowed almost to a stop. He was suspended among billowing smoke and bursting sparks that bit through his organs.

He could feel Wilson around him, within him….

_“Ugh!”_ There was a bounce, and House moved an inch upward.

The Idiot was rescuing him.

_Wilson. Don’t do this. I’m…dead._

_No! No you’re not!_

House heard another voice. One with a husky sing-song.

_“Move over, Bubbeleh. Let me help._

_“Irving!”_

_“Irving?!!!”_

Now, a real idiot was helping.

_“Both of you. Go away!”_

House pictured Wilson plummeting past him in his failed effort to help.

All he wanted was to be left to roast in his private inferno.

But miracles do happen.

Another mental tractor beam locked onto his body….

House was rising faster and faster. He found enough energy to twist his head and see the light from the doorway silhouetting two men.

The fiery heat at the top of the furnace felt like a cooling breeze.

His rescue was not complete until Wilson’s hands pulled him over the ledge and laid him tenderly onto the marble floor.

“House. Speak to me.”

Wilson draped his cloak over House, who looked into worried brown eyes.

“Impossible. I can’t be alive.”

“Yes, you can.” Wilson raised one of House’s hands so he could see he had skin. Not so much as a sunburn.

“You were in a virtual hell in a virtual world, but you’re not in the real Hell Pit until you hit bottom.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” House croaked. “I heard Irving. Where is he?”

“You survived, but your clothes didn’t. He’s gone off to find you something to wear.”

Wilson ran a caring hand through House’s hair, chuckled, but caught himself. "How are you feeling? Can you stand up?"

House nodded, and Wilson gave him a hand.

As he watched House secure the cape around his waist, Wilson asked, “How the hell did you fall in? How strong was the Godfather's bourbon?”

House checked to see if anyone was listening, but no one was near. Just like the rest of the evening, the vampires kept a healthy distance from the Borgia’s study and what House now called the sucking Pit of Hell.

“I was shoved.”

“Impossible, House. No one would pull such a stunt here, in front of witnesses.”

“And smacked on the head. Take a look.” House bent down, ruffling his hair to show his bruise.

Gentle fingers inspected the bump.

“Christ. Why would anybody do this?” Wilson’s voice cracked.

“The entertainment committee was desperate after Black Sabbath canceled their reunion show, and _Joe Versus the Volcano_ was out of stock,” House quipped.

Wilson snickered, but it didn’t lessen his anxiety. His eyes roamed over House’s face, but when they reached his hairline, Wilson bit back a grin.

“What?” House demanded.

“Nothing,” answered Wilson, as he became absorbed in the tips of his shoes.

“Here, Bubbee.” Irving had waddled back from the main crowd, shoving a bundle of riotous clothes at House. “This was all I could get.”

The men looked over the choices, selecting the best of the lot: black ruffled bloomers that only a woman or a gay toreador might wear, a red silk waistcoat shot through with gold thread, and for House’s bare feet, a pair of mismatched slippers. One black and one green. Wilson shrugged off his jacket, trading it in return for the cloak.

As an afterthought, Wilson snatched the tiny gold vial from his jacket and transferred the bottle into his own slacks. “Just in case.”

House was about to thank Irving, when the man said, “So are you enjoying yourselves? Did you get yourself a drink?”

Both men kept a straight face, as Wilson whispered, “I don’t think he remembers anything that happened.”

“We came, we saw, we drank, my lord, and now we’re leaving.” House answered.

The old vampire beamed and patted them on their backs as they made their way to the staircase.

House’s odd raiment garnered no strange looks.

In the hallway, Wilson wrapped his cloak around them, and their sandy cheeks rubbed together….

They were outside. The limousine was huffing clouds from it's tailpipe and giving off heat. They slid into the back seat, and Wilson said to the driver, “Home.”

* * *

 

Little was said on the drive back. Minion and vampire were wrung out from the evening.

House and Wilson sat next to each other, arms and legs pressed close.

They yearned to cap off the night with their limbs entwined around each other like puzzle rings.

Before and after they had hot sex.

House looked at the clock embedded into the paneling. One o’clock, and they were more than forty-five minutes from home.

He crankily asked, “Why didn't the Godfather make arrangements to transport us directly to the apartment?”

“The transportation committee handled arrivals and departures.” Wilson shrugged and patted the package next to him. “Maybe the book doesn’t travel well."

They sat in companionable silence for another five minutes until House became bored and demanded to see the tiny container of gold dust.

Also curious, Wilson obliged, shaking the vial, speaking his thoughts out loud. “Not much in there. What is it supposed to do?”

Plucking the bottle out of Wilson’s hand, House scrutinized it while he asked, “How much do you know about the Godfather’s ring?”

“The stone is ancient, the gold is pure. The Borgia never lets it out of his sight.” Wilson shrugged, picking up the package next to him,.“This book may give some answers.”

“After you get a degree in linguistics. Latin, Romanian, and a dash of Sanskrit. Isn’t that what your grandpappy said?” House’s mouth twisted mischievously.

“Yeah. I’m screwed. Zehava will ride my ass for another decade-and-a-half.”

“No, she won’t. I called dibs first.”

Wilson rumpled House’s hair in affectionate agreement, but he stopped mid-rub and once more was fighting back a smile.

"Hey, what's up with you and the way you keep looking at my hair?"

A shirtsleeved arm flipped down a mirror from the limo’s ceiling.

House peered into it. “Oh. My. God.”

“Bad news: you don’t have any more than you used to, but the good news: now it’s all the same color.” Wilson smirked.

All of House’s hair had turned white.

Running his hand over his scalp and pulling on tufts of hair from different sections, House could not find a trace of gray or brown.

“Don’t worry. The salon around the corner can fix you right up.”

“Sonofabitch. I look like Malcolm McDowell.” House slapped at the mirror, snapping it back into place. He began fidgeting with the vial.

“Sonofaslayer, and more like Malcolm's much younger brother.” Wilson corrected, as he nuzzled the hair at the back of House’s neck and mumbled, “Mhmm. Your hair _is_ kind of sexy this way.”

Idly popping the cap from the gold filigree container, House felt his cock strain at his soft cotton pantaloons. He thrummed the elastic waistband. “We could start here.”

“Not while a Nosferatu is driving and spying on us.”

“Damn,” House grumbled. “I wish we were home.”

Forgetting he was holding the open vial, House jumped as a puff of yellow smoke exploded from the container.

The limo sailed up to the curb and parked in front of their apartment house.

“What the fuck just happened?!” House exclaimed.

Grabbing the bottle out of House’s hands, Wilson promptly replaced the stopper and checked the gold dust. “Damn it, House! Over a third of it is gone. The gold powder must contain a wishing spell.” Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, trying to control his temper. ”This had to be the most expensive ride _ever_.”

The guard opened the door for them.

House saw it as a chance to escape Wilson’s shredded nerves, and got out. “At least we learned what the gold dust does and how it works,” House said. Wilson scooted out right behind him.

The chauffeur revved the engine and the limo lit out with a roar.

Two weary men trudged single-file to the steps.

They heard footsteps. Several.

Five Halloween revelers, each dressed as Dracula, converged upon them.

They were drunk and looking for trouble.

“Hey, Grandpa. What are you dressed up as?” The leader was holding a near-empty bottle of whiskey and was checking House’s costume. The other four swayed and giggled.

House looked down at his clothes._ Shit._ He growled, “I’m Patch Adams’s worst nightmare. Get away from me!”

The gigglers became quiet and circled him. The leader snickered. “You’re not impressing me, Old Man.”

Wilson sidled up to House, managing to sound like the voice of reason. “You’re messing with the wrong guy, fellas. He’s not old. He’s a doct—“

The second-in-command stuck his nose into House’s face. “Oooh. You know all about knives and scalpels and what to do with them, do you, Fagdad?” He laughed like a hyena.

The youth moved on to Wilson, and spoke in a sibilant voice. “You can’t possibly be interested in this old guy. Someone as pretty as you?” He brought out a switchblade and popped it open. Placing the blade under a button on Wilson’s shirt, he sliced it off. The knife climbed upward from one button to the next, until the sharp edge was cutting into the shirt fabric on Wilson’s chest.

“Come into the alley with me Sweetcakes, and if you’re as entertaining as you look, I won’t draw blood. Whaddya say?”

Standing with his head down, fingers strumming at the tear in his ruined shirt, Wilson was quiet, absorbing every word the lieutenant said. “I don’t think so.”

Another button popped off the shirt, close to Wilson’s neck. “What was that, Peaches? I didn’t hear you.”

Wilson’s hand reached out and grabbed House’s arm, shoving him out of the way. “I said…I’ve had enough entertainment tonight to last me two lifetimes, and….” Wilson raised his head, his eyes circles of blazing red, his voice a thunderous roar as he mouth opened and he displayed fangs.”You haven’t the slightest idea how to draw blood, but I’d be delighted to show you.”

The five members screamed, pissed in their pants, and scattered like junk mail in the wind.

* * *

 

Standing in the middle of the living room dressed in a robe, House waited for Wilson to return from his trip to the dumpster where he was ditching the fashion disasters from the ball along with the week's accumulated debris. Apparently, he also shed his youth. Wilson returned looking his chronological age.

Shaking his head, Wilson lamented, "I can't believe how I lost it with those jerks."

"I can. After dealing with Nosferatu, your sire, and His Holiness tonight—

"—and you with your damned curiosity. " Wilson wagged a finger, but abruptly stopped.

"I almost lost you." A thousand sorrows waltzed in the vampire's eyes.

"But you didn't." House pulled Wilson close and kissed him until they both ran out of air.

When they let go, House trilled in a falsetto voice as he steered his partner to the bedroom, “You're my cavaliere in shining armor! My hero!”

Wilson smiled, but furrowed his brow. “I’m never going to hear the last of it, am I?

“What do you think, Sir Wilson of Oncology?”

* * *

After they had their fill of raw, passionate sex, Wilson fell asleep, but House stayed awake.

Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, he was thinking about the night’s events and mulled over one troubling question.

If there was a virtual hell, was there a virtual heaven?

He turned on his side, spooning against Wilson. Resting his hand on his lover’s chest and covering the cool leg with his own, House felt Wilson wedge closer to him, and he fell asleep knowing the answer.

 

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	6. Chapter 6

  
Ano domini: 2225

_When the vampire finished the tale, all the characters and events vanished into a locked cabinet in the past…._   


* * *

The last words dripped from the white haired vamp’s mouth, and were wiped clean by the howls and whistles from a crumbling world.

Black noise filled the cathedral’s shell as the bloodsucker closed his eyes. With his mind overwhelmed by memories, the head lowered until his chin rested upon his chest.

Jennings sat on the first step of the platform, cursing his pedantic tongue. Now was the time to offer condolences and assurances, and his brain was mud.

“You can’t help being a moron. It’s the air you breathe—what’s left of it.” The vivid blue orbs were open and concentrating on the bleeder. The sad, faraway expression chased away by the human's thoughts. “Tox screens are pointless now. Bet you didn’t know water’s not supposed to be green.”

Back on safer, conversational ground, the young man diffidently answered, “No, my Lord.”

A high-pitched squeal echoed off unyielding stone and scrolled through the air. A bat perched on the leather-covered shoulder. A white finger ran up the side of the small head, and the creature pushed against it in return, communicating, or performing an unhuman mating ritual.

The needle-like teeth dropped a cylinder of paper into the waiting hand.

The vampire’s eyes widened as he scratched at his grizzled face, looked at the applicant, and spoke briskly, “I’m sorry. This was a waste of my time, but don’t take it personally.”

“Wha—what?! It can’t be. I—I’m from the Borgia’s bleeder line!”

“That and two thousand credits will get you beautiful funeral,” was the harsh reply.

“No! No, this can’t be happening.” The man sounded desperate.

The vamp turned his attention to his pet, having lost interest in the candidate, but the winged mammal screamed in indignation and flapped away.

The Borgia lieutenant stood up in dismissal, reaching to a height not seen among living men anymore. The roughly clad voice offered one last crumb of encouragement.

“Try one of the other less picky clans from the splinter factions. I hear the wombat vamps who broke from the Tudors are hard up. They’ll kiss your ass for a chance to bite your neck.”

“But, but, but…!” sputtered Jennings and stopped. His Lordship’s eyes glowed red.

Bowing, the man turned on his heels, walked upright for several steps, but he could feel the vampire’s eyes scalding his back. He bent down and scurried away like the vermin scattering before his feet.

There was a series of furious squeaks protesting from the rafters. The middle-aged vamp followed the progress of the agitated mammal spiraling down from the arches above to the slate tiles in front of him.

“Now’s not the time to nag, Wilson.”

“What’s the right time House? When the Tudor’s and Tang’s overwhelm La Famiglia simply by outnumbering our troops? We needed him!”

Wilson stood before House, transformed from Bela. Brown eyes glared, legs splayed, and left hand planted on hip. The right was shoved into a pocket of his jacket, but both elbows were akimbo.

“What the hell were you thinking? He’s one of us!”

“He’s a spy!” House’s blue eyes snapped as he spit out his bitter disappointment.

“That can’t be. His blood came back untainted.” But Wilson sounded less sure.

“Which means we can’t rely on the tests anymore or there’s a mole working in the labs. I’ll have to warn Cuddy.” House sat back down in the chair and rubbed his chin.

“Are you’re sure he’d been bitten? He didn’t have a tattoo did he?”

“No tattoo. Whatever clan he's from, they’re using new technology. Thank goodness, I come fully loaded with the old.” House pointed to his eyes and tapped his nose. “Vampire hunter.

 "I could make out a slight pooling under the skin where meathead had been punctured, and his scent was off. Didn’t have that fresh strawberry-mint shower gel fragrance like you.”

Wilson’s voice had an edge. “Then, why did you give him all that information about the ring…and our relationship? What goes on between us is _private_.”

“I fed him only the information I wanted to give him.” House walked over to the dusty wall, and wrote, “RING” with a finger, creating a ghostly whiteboard. “He will tell his leaders that the ring exists.

“And don’t look so glum. I only gave him the PG-13 details of our relationship.”

“And you told him I was _dead_!”

“I never said that. You flew to the lab. I said you were _gone_.”

Wilson was slightly mollified, but challenged another fact in the story. “What about the Nosferatu? They were no scarier than seven foot teddy bears!”

“I may have indulged in a _little_ misdirection.” House’s mouth twisted in a sly grin, as he wrote “GUARD.”

“But you widely exaggerated your experience in the Hell Pit. Each time I hear you tell that story, House, it becomes worse.”

“PIT” joined the growing list.

“Again. I want our enemies to know we have a weapon to fear. Something worse than turning to dust.” House smiled in triumph.

House continued jotting on the wall. He wrote, “HQ” and “CESARE.”

“I altered facts about the ball to mislead him about the Godfather and the location of our head office.”

An outline of a heart with an “X” slashed through the center went up next.

The blue eyes peered at the brown. “He’ll tell his family that you’re dead, and I’m shattered.

"They’ll think you’re not around to offer peace treaties at the drop of a fang, or prevent me from going lethal weapon and activate our troops.”

“Is that what you’re considering? Making the first move? You know we don’t have the resources or the alliances.” Giving into his frustration, Wilson’s arms were a blur as they flailed. He caught himself, and shoved the dark brown fist back into his pocket.

House ignored the outburst. “Of course not, but other clans don’t know. They may think twice about attacking, and that buys us more time.”

Reviewing the list, Wilson conceded. “You’re right. And as far as your crazy plans go, this one makes the most sense.”

Wilson pulled his right hand from his pocket and massaged the dark brown, leathery, claw tipped fingers. As he stretched each digit out, webbing fanned in-between.

A man-sized bat’s paw.

House cradled the mismatched hand in both of his. “Say the word, and I’ll restore it back to normal.”

“Always the healer.” Wilson shook his head. “The hand can wait. We must conserve the Godfather’s ring.”

They looked into each other’s eyes…and blinked.

Two spirals of smoke curled up into the rafters and through a clerestory window. The columns morphed into men.

House and Wilson sat together on a parapet overlooking the city blanketed in fog, the clouds above crackled with daggers of lightening.

“The winds of war are blowing our way, Wilson…We must begin marshaling the troops. Implement aggressive strategies."

“La Famiglia’s not ready, House. We need more time. It’s hard getting recruits, and with all the dark communities  converting humans to undead, the situation is liable to get worse. It’s anyone’s guess when or how circumstances will get better—“

“Don’t Obama me. I’m a specialist in pulling off last minute miracles.” House reminded his partner.

“Yeah. You are.”

Out of long habit, Wilson heaved an old-fashioned sigh. “We’ll have to move now that our location is blown.”

Neither was happy about leaving their current home across the street from the hospital.

House tried cheering his souled mate. “We can search for an apartment with a kitchen that needs remodeling, even if we never use it. Either that, or an abandoned hotel.”

Wilson wanted to reciprocate the best way he could. “How about a place over a pizza parlor or Chinese restaurant? You can enjoy the smell, and who knows? You may get lucky and sink your teeth into a some Chinese.”

“Har har, Wilson. Childish vampire joke. You been hanging upside down from the ceiling, eavesdropping on the children’s ward again?”

“We’re over two-hundred-and-fifty years old, House. The humans are all children to us.”

Snaking his arm around the waist of his partner, House nibbled on an earlobe and whispered, “That’s why I love your company. We have so much in common.”

Turning in his lover’s arms Wilson let out a small snarl signaling his growing passion. His tongue lapped at House’s neck, and warmed the throat with kisses. His hand ran under the t-shirt, pulling the fabric up. Teasing one nipple with his thumb until the nub became hard, his tongue flicking at the other.

House returned the favor, unzipping Wilson’s pants, and running his hand over hairy flesh until he staked a claim on smooth, bare real estate that twitched and stiffened under his expert touch. His voice rasped a lusty growl, “Inside. Now.”

From within a small private chamber drifted hoarse whispers….

“Blood brothers forever, Wilson.”

“Blood brothers forever, House.

 

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